


The Talented Dennis Reynolds

by DollBones



Series: The D.E.N.N.I.S Files [4]
Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Anxiety, Borderline Personality Disorder, Con Artists, Depression, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, F/M, Gender Issues, Identity Issues, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Misogyny, Narcissistic Personality Disorder, Physical Abuse, Prostitution, Suicide Attempt, Violence, lying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 14:48:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8537242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DollBones/pseuds/DollBones
Summary: Dennis figured it was always better to be a fake somebody than a real nobody.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have guessed by the title, this work was inspired by The Talented Mr. Ripley. I highly recommend the movie to Dennis fans, as I believe Dennis Reynolds and Tom Ripley share many similar qualities; the clear distinction between the two is that Ripley is far more competent and intelligent. :)

It was easier when he was younger.  Nobody expected you to be a real person.  All Dennis had to do was act in accordance with his parent's anticipations for him and the rest just fell into place.  Or so it seemed.  It was hard to say, as he'd always lived his life at a constant forward impetus.  Don't look back, keep moving.  Throw the past in a room in a basement, lock the door, and never go in.  As he grew older, however, Dennis gradually came to the conclusion that it was acceptable, once in a while, to throw open the door--to at least be honest with himself, if not anyone else.  

He guessed that he'd never really felt like an actual person.  He remembered as a little kid watching the other kids at recess, playing and having fun.  There was a distinct feeling of separateness, almost like watching a different species.  He remembered sitting on the swings staring at them, a mixture of confusion and longing swelling in his chest.  How easy it was for them to smile and befriend each other, love each other.  Nobody loved him.

Okay, people did love him--his mother and father in their own way, his twin sister--but no one else.  Not people who mattered.  And even still if people loved him, and this included his mother, they didn't love _him,_ him.  They loved the person he was portraying himself as.  When Dennis was young, he discovered that he had an extraordinary talent for mirroring people.  Since he possessed no organic understanding of social interactions and relationships, he was forced to rely upon this talent in order to survive.  He'd watch people, paying close attention to their body language, their manner of speaking, even the words they used.  From all these minute details, he'd extract snippets of behavior that he liked and mimic them later in conversations, effectively "borrowing" small pieces of everyone he encountered, the good pieces. Weaving them into a lustrous and counterfeit quilt he wore as an identity.

The first person he ever did this with, and the one he probably "borrowed from" most heavily, was his mother.  As a little boy, he'd stand in front of the mirror and repeat things she said to him, complete with her hand gestures and facial expressions, over and over until the impression became uncanny.  Out of boredom, as he was so often bored, he started to do this with his father, too, even though he never used any parts of his father's personality in the outside world.  Frank Reynolds was a crude and ugly man whose wealth was built upon business dealings that were sketchy at best and corrupt at worst; nothing could be gained from mimicking him.  Sometimes, Dennis found, people were only useful for entertainment.

 

*

 From up in his bedroom, he echoed his parents' voices screaming below.  "Have I not made it abundantly clear that I could not give a shit what you think?" his mother sneered at his father.

" _Have I not made it abundantly clear that I could not give a shit what you think_ ,"  eight-year-old Dennis parroted as he paced back and forth across the carpet, hugging his stuffed elephant Mr. Tibbs close.

"I'm telling you, _your_ kid is a goddamn nut.  There's something seriously wacko going on inside his head," his father shouted back.

Wincing: " _There's something seriously wacko going on inside his head._ "

"For God's sake, Frank, you're one to talk--"

" _You're one to talk--_ "

"...considering that you're the one who was put into a mental hospital as a child, _Frog-man_."

A giggle.  " _...Frog-man_."

"Exactly, so I know what I'm talking about!  I really think we should take him somewhere."

" _Take him somewhere._ "  Tiny fingers clutched Mr. Tibbs' face, pulling anxiously at his button eyes.

"What, put him in a mental hospital so he could end up like you?"  His mother made a scornful sound.  "I don't think so.  There's nothing wrong with him, anyway."

" _Nothing wrong with him anyway_."  Dennis nodded fiercely at this, swallowing a hard lump in his throat.

"Fine. I give up," his father said in exasperation.  "He's your problem now."

" _Your problem now._ "

"Of course," his mother cried in a beleaguered tone.  "Leave the sole responsibility of being caretaker to these children to me."

"More like to a series of undocumented Mexican maids."

"Excuse me?"

Dennis closed his eyes, willing himself away.  Someplace outside this house.  Someplace grand, where adults didn't scream at each other and he was loved. " _Excuse me._ "

"Dennis," Dee yelled from her bedroom on the other side of the wall, "I told you to stop that!  It's weird!"

He covered his face with Mr. Tibbs, ignoring her.  Dennis wasn't here anymore.  Not here not here not here not here...

"Stop saying that!" Dee whined, and he realized that he'd been talking aloud.  "You're scaring me!"

Whirling around to face the wall, he said in a loud, clear voice that was an almost perfect copy of her own, " _You're scaring me!_ "

Suddenly, his bedroom door burst open and Dee appeared in the threshold, her tiny face screwed up in menace.  She flung a Barbie doll at him. "I told you to shut up!" she wailed

The doll struck Dennis on the shoulder.  "Ow, you stupid idiot!"  Enraged, he lunged forward and Dee retreated down the hall, shrieking.  Dennis chased her to her room, where she threw the door in his face.

Dennis pounded on the door.  "Open up, idiot!"

"No way, jerk!"

The pounding grew louder as the twins continued bickering, their screams intertwining and eventually blurring into the screams of their mother and father downstairs.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Maureen,"  16-year-old Dennis said into the mirror as he combed his curls, "you look stunning."    

He frowned.  No, too phony.  He tried again, flashing a smile.  "Maureen, you look  _hot._ "

Now he'd gone too far the other way.  She'd think he was an asshole.  He twisted the lid off a bottle of foundation, squirted product onto the back of his palm, and began applying it to his face.  "Maureen, you look great."

He washed his hands under the faucet, counting to 20 seconds, and reached for a tube of mascara.  Good.  That was good.  Now he had to sort out acceptable topics of conversation.  Dennis widened his eyes, stroking the tiny brush applicator over his lashes.  The last issue of GQ had an article about the Do's and Don'ts for first dates.  One of the Do's, Dennis recalled, was Make Them Feel Special.  Ask about their interests and goals.  Pretend to care, even if you don't. 

Dennis glanced at the silver Rolex watch around his wrist.  He had a half hour before he had to leave to pick up Maureen Ponderosa for their date.  He stared back at his reflection, his stomach giving an unpleasant lurch of panic.  Distinctly unpleasant--he couldn't afford to let any of the nervousness he was feeling bubble up to the surface.  Dennis Reynolds did not get sweaty around girls.  He stepped back so he could assess his clothes.  He'd carefully layered a heathery cashmere sweater over a sky-blue button-down and dark-wash jeans.  

His fists clenched, and he felt his body stiffening.  He sighed, commanding himself to relax.  Then, just like that, a cool and placid voice slid into his brain like a thin snake.   _Dennis Reynolds,_ it began, and he could practically feel its tail flexing in his skull,   _Dennis Reynolds does not get nervous._

_Dennis Reynolds is suave._

 Yes, yes, he knew that.

_Dennis Reynolds is confident._

He ran a hand through his hair and immediately cursed himself, realizing what he'd done.

_Dennis Reynolds is attractive._

Hyperventilating, he did another run-through with the comb, then scrutinized his mirror image.  Did his hair look okay?  All at once, he wasn't so sure.  A dark chasm of doom opened before him, gaping like a hungry mouth.  Any second and he would plunge into a despair so black and empty, he'd be incapacitated for the rest of the night.  Not even "Dennis Reynolds" would be able to overcome it.

He could feel the anxiety attack just on the horizon.  Already, his shoulders were clamping up, and his heart was racing.  Dee, he thought, swallowing and tasting metal.  He needed Dee.

Fleeing from his reflection, he escaped down the hall and hammered upon his sister's door.  "Dee, Dee, open up!" he cried.  "Come on!"

His sister opened the door, looking pissed.  For a moment, Dennis thought that someone who was already made hideous by a humongous back brace wasn't doing themselves any favors by continually wearing an unattractive scowl.  The very least she could do, he decided, was play the role of a plucky optimist determined to see the good in everything despite the raw deal life had given her.  You know, milk people for sympathy votes.  "What?  What is it?" she demanded roughly.  Then she actually took him in, and her expression lost some of its edge.  "Whoa, what's with that look on your face?"

"Dee," he gasped, hating the tone of desperation in his voice, "I need you to give me your complete, unbiased, objective opinion."

She blinked. "K."

He took a deep breath, and let it out.  "How does my hair look?"

For a second, she just stared at him.  "Well?" he demanded, with a note of hysteria.

"That's what you're freaking out about?" she commented dryly.  "Your hair?"

He shrugged, giving her an irritated look.  "Um, yeah.  What else would I be freaking out about?"

Dee crossed her arms, rolling her eyes skyward.  "Oh my god."  She stepped forward, squinting at him before quickly deciding,"It looks fine."

"Positive?" Dennis said, hands stroking his curls uncertainly.  "You're not just screwing with me, right?"

Her gaze widened with impatience.  " _Yes_.  I'm not just screwing with you.  You look good, okay?"

The corners of his lips quirked up in a slow, hesitant smile.  "I look good?"

Realizing that she'd inadvertently fueled her brother's massive ego, Dee backpedaled.  "Well, I mean, good enough for  _her_ , anyway."

Dennis broke into a wide grin.  "I love you, Deandra."

In response, Dee walked back into her room and slammed the door.

 

*****

Dennis and Maureen sat across from each other at the burger store.  Their table wasn't the best, as it was right next to a group of middle-aged women who giggled and squealed like they were teenagers, and the whole layout of the place in general was pretty crude and déclassé.  A "family-friendly" type joint, plugged full of people on a Friday night.  However, Dennis had chosen it because it served decent food at cheap prices, so that even if this date turned out to be a waste of time, it wouldn't be so much of a waste of his money.  While his female companion's eyes were downcast reading the menu, Dennis allowed himself a long, lingering look at her.  Maureen Ponderosa was cute.  Her long, dark hair had been flat-ironed to a sleek blanket of silk that fell down to her breasts, which were plumped up in an emerald-green dress.  A tiny kitten pendant dangled from a gold chain just above her cleavage, capturing his attention.

Maureen looked up, and Dennis raised his eyes to her face.  He smiled the way he'd seen countless leading men in romance movies smile, just enough to dazzle her with the glimmer of his teeth.  "Maureen, you look great," he said.

She smiled back bashfully.  "Thanks, Dennis.  You look great, too."

He leaned back in his seat, not too far as that would suggest he was bored, but far enough to project confidence.  Make Her Feel Special, he told himself.  Start with light, playful questions.  Tipping his glass of water to his mouth, he began with an easy one. "So, Maureen, how was your day?"

"It was alright," she responded.  Her nose wrinkled up flirtatiously.  "Better now."

Dennis chuckled.  "Yeah.  Me too.  Say, Maureen"--mention their name a lot, he remembered, it makes them feel important to you--"what kind of music do you like?"

She thought.  "Um, mostly pop.  Mariah Carey, Madonna, Ace of Base.   Kylie Minogue, Lionel Richie."

 _Hmm, n_ _ot too bad._ All of them were pretty solid.  She hadn't mentioned Steve Winwood, David Bowie, or Bryan Adams, though, which disappointed him.  Ah well, he'd indoctrinate her soon enough.  "Excellent.  Love them."

At that moment, the waiter stopped by their table.  "Hello, just wanted to see if you two were ready to order."

"I'm ready," Maureen said to him.  "Cheeseburger and fries, please."  She turned to look expectantly at Dennis.

Dennis hadn't even opened his menu.  He'd been trying to avoid the unpleasantness of such a task.  But now he had no choice.  To get it over with, he flipped it open, casting his eye quickly down the list of meals.  Ugh.  He'd feel better about himself if he got a salad, but "Dennis Reynolds" did not eat salads when his dates ordered cheeseburgers and fries.  So, smothering the disgust that flared inside him, he told the waiter, "I'll have the same."

He handed the man the menu, a cold layer of distress settling over his skin.   _Just don't think about it,_ he urged himself.  He reached for another drink of water.

"So, what kinds of things do you like?"

"Excuse me?"  Dennis nearly choked on his water, taken off guard by her question.  

"What do you like," Maureen repeated, crossing her legs and leaning towards him.  "You know, besides Madonna."  She gave a little giggle at this, although he didn't understand why.

His mind went a white, clammy blank.   _What did he_ like?  It was a frustratingly simple, innocent inquiry, yet for some reason it made panic rise up his throat.  He realized all at once that he had no idea.  How could he have real, genuine interests when he wasn't a real, genuine person?  Then he thought: _rephrase the question_.  What did _Dennis Reynolds_ like?  

He exhaled in relief.  "Typical stuff, really.  Watching movies, hanging out with my friends.  I spend a lot of time at the gym."

She looked him over appreciatively.  "I can tell."

He smiled; he hadn't lied.  "I also do a bit of volunteer work here and there.  Walking dogs at the animal shelter, reading to old people."  That was a lie.

"Oh, wow!  That's so sweet of you!"

Dennis tried to look humble.  "Well, it just feels good to give back every now and then.  I outta tell you, though," he made a show of looking away and choking up, "it just really warms my heart, to make other people happy.  I don't know, sometimes I think I'm too sensitive."  He sniffed back imaginary tears, gauging her reaction to see if she bought it.

She stared at him in pathetic adoration.  Yup, he thought.  Hook, line, and sinker.  When he'd performed his little routine, he'd stretched one of his arms across the table, leaving his hand there so that she would take it.  And she did, folding her fingers over his and beaming at him with all the light of the sun.  "You're sweet."

"So are you." Dennis surprised himself by being sincere.  He liked this nice, simple girl.  She readily believed whatever he told her. 

Their waiter returned with their food.  "Two cheeseburgers and fries," he announced, placing the plates down in front of them.

"Good, I'm starving!" Maureen exclaimed, immediately picking up her burger and taking a big bite.

Reluctantly, Dennis picked up his own.  Before he could think about how many calories were in it, he took a bite.  The flavor of savory beef burst in his mouth, and he almost moaned.  God, this was good.  No way it wasn't fattening.

He swallowed, then took another bite.  Time to put his supposedly high, teenage-boy metabolism to work.  Maureen smiled from her end of the table.  He winked at her, riding high on a wave of triumph.  The rest of the date played before him like a movie.  He'd charm her with more bullshit until they decided to leave.  Then he'd drive her back to her house and chivalrously walk her to her door, where they would exchange a deep, passionate kiss.  And if during the kiss she closed her eyes, he'd have about a 30 second window to stare down her dress.

He tucked a fry into his mouth, picturing the moment.  Beautiful.

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 


	3. Chapter 3

College was okay.  Not good, not terrible, just...okay.  If Dennis were to be honest with himself (which was always a trial), he'd confess it was a bit of a disappointment.  So strange.  Movies always made out the whole college experience to be an endless party, a four-year bacchanalia of beer pong and loose women occasionally punctuated by assignments and exams.  Dennis had always looked to it as a stepping stone, a gateway from his life as the son of Frank Reynolds into an exciting new life as an adult.  Instead, he was dismayed to find out that college was more or less a harder version of high school, except in high school at least you got to go back home.  And who knew it would be so much work?  Massive term papers due every other week, boring lectures, and constant reading assignments.  Fortunately for him, Dennis had enough cash to get nerds to do most of his work for him, and enough cunning to cheat on exams.  But still, he worked his ass off.

And for what?  He joined a fraternity, convinced that among his Greek brothers he'd finally find the people with whom he was meant to be friends.  Handsome, cultured men of pedigree, of champagne-luncheons and silver-spoon refinement.  However, it appeared that the majority of the male students at UPenn subscribed to the primitive, repulsive lifestyle of "bro-culture," which Dennis despised.  The girls weren't much better.  You'd think that the women who attended a prestigious, Ivy-League university, women who grew up in wealthy, WASP-ish households with CEO fathers who probably touched them inappropriately on at least one occasion, would put more effort into their appearance.  Seriously, even Dee looked more appealing than some of the dump-trucks he witnessed waddling across campus.  Dennis blamed the 90's feminist trend.  It had tricked women into believing that beauty standards were oppressive rather than necessary.  Now they were peddling the garbage that all women were beautiful in their own way.  Ludicrous!  Dennis thought.  If everyone was beautiful in their own way, then no one was.  If standards didn't exist, there'd be no differentiating the exceptional from the mediocre.  And  _Dennis Reynolds_ was exceptional.

Resourceful playboy that he was, he still managed to get plenty of reasonably attractive pussy.  Lots of 7's and 8's, a couple majestic 9's, but sadly no 10's.  Whatever.  He'd settle for lesser women to satisfy his libido, which was always ravenous.  Ravenous, he thought--that seemed to be the word to describe every aspect of his being.  There was a massive hole inside him, an emptiness begging to be filled.  It gave him the feeling of being perpetually deprived, which confused him because he wanted for nothing; he had every advantage a person could possibly be given: white, male, wealthy, attractive, straight.  But any happiness he achieved was fleeting, and his baseline mood was that of vague dissatisfaction.  Booze helped.  So did drugs and sex and cigarettes.  Food was good for comfort, too, but treacherous territory, and his few indulgences there had to be harshly corrected.

On top of everything else he had to do--partying, fucking, looking good--Dennis also somehow had to fit lectures and actual schoolwork into his schedule.  Out of nowhere, his life became a strained, stress-infused blur.  The panic attacks he used to get when he was 14 started again, barely quelled by the Valium he operated upon on a daily basis, and probably made worse by the coke and Ritalin he also used in order to do once-simple things like study and not pass out during a lecture.  He didn't understand it.  His world once moved like a well-oiled machine, everything in order and working to his wishes, and now cogs were falling off every which way and everything was moving at a breakneck pace, increasingly difficult to keep up.  Then Derek came along.

 

*****

Dennis had just ditched his old roommate, Stephen.  Okay, technically, Stephen had ditched him, citing ludicrous claims like he was "impossible to live with" and "psychotic" with the university housing department, but whatever, Stephen was lame anyway.  He was always complaining about stupid shit like him playing his music too loud, wanting to drink all night, smoking, and walking around naked.  He also said that he couldn't deal with Dennis' "crazy rants" and three-hour-long phone calls with his "boyfriend" (his _best friend, certainly not boyfriend_   Mac).  Dennis guessed that finally snapping and telling Stephen that he would decapitate him in his sleep had probably been the last straw, but it was difficult to say.  The fucker was so damn uptight.

On the first day of spring semester, he was due to move his things into his new dorm with his new roommate, Derek Ritter.  As he walked down the hall of the residence building, dragging a cart piled high with his possessions behind him and searching the numbers on the doors, Dennis allowed himself to feel hopeful for the first in a long time.  He and Derek had emailed each other and spoken on the phone over winter break, and the guy seemed like someone who was a bit more relaxed.  Dennis was also a little relieved to be away from home again.  He and Dee had escaped their parents' typical holiday awfulness for a few days by going skiing in Colorado, but having to live up to his mother's sky-high expectations of him and dealing with his father's casual cruelty proved to be too much even for the little time he'd actually spent at home.  And watching his sister attempt to compete with him for his mother's affection, tattling on him for alleged "drug addiction," had been equally sickening.  

There was his room.  Dennis knocked on the door.

A tan, dark-haired young man answered.  Instantly upon seeing him, Dennis couldn't help cracking a broad grin of approval.  He was handsome and fit, dressed suavely in a burgundy sweater and jeans.  As he smiled (teeth white and perfect) and offered his hand, Dennis caught a whiff of cologne: Eau Sauvage by Christian Dior-- _nice_.  "Hey there.  I'm Derek.  I'm guessing you're Dennis?"

Dennis shook his hand.  His grip was warm, firm; he was almost reluctant to let go.  "Yes, that's me."

Derek gestured at his luggage.  "Need some help with your stuff?"

"Yeah, that'd be great."

Derek helped him unload his things.  Dennis felt a little self-conscious as his roommate handled his possessions; this person clearly had good taste.  But Derek gave no sign of being pleased or displeased by what he saw.  For example, he took no notice of Dennis' expensive, genuine-leather book bag when he picked it up, at which Dennis couldn't help feeling a stab of annoyance.  He hated it when people didn't praise things they damn well knew deserved praise.  Deliberately withholding their approbation, their  _love_.  Choking down the strong impulse to straight-out ask Derek for his opinion, Dennis put on a jovial smile and said, "I like how you've done the place.  Cool."

Sitting down on his bed, Derek smiled a pleasant, genuine smile in return.  "Thanks."

Mirroring him, Dennis sat down on his own bed and attempted to appear relaxed.  "So,  what's your major?" he asked in a casual tone that he'd practiced on the drive here.

"Philosophy, but Pre-Law," Derek replied.  "You?"

"Sociology," Dennis said.  "But I want to go to veterinary school after my bachelor's."

Derek gave him an incredulous look.  "Really?  That's interesting.  Wouldn't have pegged you for that."

Intrigued, Dennis leaned closer.  "Huh.  What would you have pegged me for?"

Derek shrugged, his eyes glittering with a playful gleam.  "I don't know.  Something like advertising or business.  I mean, you're Frank Reynolds' son, right?"

Dennis recoiled, his good mood flattening.  He fidgeted, scratched his arm.  "Yeah, I am, " he admitted in a strained voice, "but really, you know, it's not like I'm gonna inherit his business or anything.  And I wouldn't want to, anyway.  Too much responsibility.  If I ever wound up running a business, I'd probably kill myself."  Realizing that this sounded morbid, he forced a laugh to try to lighten the statement, but it came out too loud and nervous.

Nonplussed, Derek nodded.  "I get it.  Hey, just because your dad made his money that way doesn't mean you have to.  My dad's a doctor, so he was a little pissed when he found out I was going into law."

 _At least he gives a shit_ , Dennis found himself thinking, then quickly banished the thought from his head.  It was pointless envying people who had good relationships with their parents; it only made the hole inside him wider.  Derek glanced at a watch around his wrist (Rolex, but not better than the one he owned, Dennis saw with relief).  "Oh, shit," he said suddenly.  He rose to his feet.  "I forgot I'm supposed to have lunch with my girlfriend at 12.  Damn it."  He crossed over to the floor-length mirror hanging on the adjacent wall, then spun around, gesturing for Dennis' judgement.  "Well, be honest: do I look like crap?"

Dennis smiled.  "No, dude.  You look good," he said sincerely.

"Thanks, man.  You're alright."  Derek rushed out of the room.

And now Dennis could have his fun.

 

 

 

  

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is turning out to be my longest fic yet. If only I could finish it faster! Typically, I draft my fics in a notebook before I start posting them, so it takes less time for me to complete them on the site. With this one, however, I've done everything here because I'm trying to post new content more frequently. I apologize, then, for my snail-like writing pace. :-)


	4. Chapter 4

Dennis waited two minutes once the door had closed, just in case his roommate had forgotten something and doubled back, and then opened up a large, black briefcase.  Inside were several dossiers with names labeled on the covers.  Sifting past "Dee," "Mac," and "Charlie" (grimacing at one marked "Stephen"--maybe it would prove useful for blackmail later), he pulled out the dossier labeled "Derek."  Dennis flipped it open.  The notes in here were meager--hard to get much info about a person from a few emails and a phone call--but that would change soon.  

 _No siblings,_ he read under the subtitle "Background Information." _Likely to suffer from Only Child Syndrome.  Ergo, self-centered and used to getting what he wants.  Ergo, more likely to cause conflict with me and what I want._

_Grew up in West Chester, PA.  May be boring._

_Likes the Eagles._

 

Taking out a pen, Dennis added some more.  

_Has girlfriend.  Hot._

_Doctor father, so wealthy._

_Pre-Law.  Likely straight-edge, neurotic type._

_Good taste._

 

Dennis assessed what he'd written.  Satisfied, he stood up and wandered over to Derek's side of the room.  His gaze surveyed the area with punctilious care.  The first thing he noticed was how neat everything was.   _Interesting._ With a delighted smile, he took note of this in his dossier.  There were a few framed photographs on the wall.  One of them was of a cute blonde girl, blowing a kiss into the camera.  Dennis looked at the photo, savoring a brief fantasy of the same girl laid out on his dorm bed, him plowing her until they both reached a loud and sweaty climax. His fingers reflexively swept down to stroke the growing bulge underneath his jeans, then, remembering what he was supposed to be doing, he pulled them away ( _Focus, Dennis,_ he told himself) and diverted his attention to another picture of Derek with a middle-aged man and woman.  His parents, Dennis assumed.  A high school graduation photo, Derek in his cap and gown flanked by Mom and Dad, all three smiling.  Dennis felt a twinge of sadness.  In his graduation photo, only his mother was present, standing stiffly by his side with a closed smile.  He sucked in a deep breath, slowly blew it out.   _Move on, for Christ's sake._ He looked through a storage drawer by his roommate's bed, where he came across a few CD's.  With sinking disappointment, he recognized the music as alt-rock, depressing stuff: Nine Inch Nails, Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, fucking REM.  The kind of music the freaks at his high school listened to.  Ah, well.  He wrote down the names of the bands, album titles, and genres.

By the bed, Dennis found a small planner.  For today's date, in neat pen, Derek had written two things: _Lunch with Tiffany at 12-DON'T FORGET_  ! and _Dennis._ Dennis perked up at this, pleased that Derek had encapsulated the entire event of his moving in with just his name; it gave the impression that he himself _was_ the event.  He put the planner back where he found it, making a note of its location; he could look at it each day to stay updated with what his new friend was doing and where he was going.  Moving on to Derek's closet, he picked through the clothes, reading the brand names.  Ralph Lauren, Banana Republic, J.Crew.  Meticulously, he swept through the rest of the room, absorbing and analyzing every detail.

When he was done, Dennis had ten pages of notes added to his file.   _Excellent,_ he thought, lying back on his bed looking at the paper, a triumphant grin cutting across his face.  At that moment, he heard the doorknob turn.  Dennis started, surprised that he hadn't heard the footsteps coming up to the room.  Then again, he was a couple beers deep. _Shit._   Swiftly, he snapped the dossier closed, shoved it into the case with all the others, locked the case, and shoved it under the bed.  He arranged himself into his former relaxed position, grabbed a book, and pretended to be reading.

Derek walked into the room.  "Hey," he greeted.  His voice was oddly flat, his face like a wounded dog. With a sigh, he slumped onto his bed.

Dennis sat up, twisting around to face him.  "Hey bro, everything okay?"

Derek let out another sigh.  "Oh, nothing.  Me and my girlfriend got into a fight.  She got up and left the restaurant."

Dennis put on his Sympathetic Look, a combination of lowered eyebrows and concerned frown that he'd started using as a kid to fake caring.  "Man, that sucks.  Was it serious? "

"Not really," Derek replied, "but she gets really worked up over the smallest things.  She probably won't even talk to me for a week."

Dennis' restless mind latched on to what he said, wheels beginning to click and turn.  Slowly, he raised his arms and stretched, flexing so that his biceps pulsed against his sleeves.  "Seems a little childish," he suggested, casting a lure into the water.

His roommate shrugged.  "Well, women."

Dennis smiled.  "I hear you."  He widened his smile, knowing that the sun coming through the blinds would hit his face at just the right angle, making his eyes dance with light.  "Hey, bet I can take your mind off it."

Derek raised an eyebrow.  "Oh.  How's that?"

Eyes brightening with a mischievous glow, Dennis pulled out a can of beer, one of the twelve-pack he'd hidden inside his luggage. 

The other boy stared at it, a mixture of shock and interest flickering over his features.  "It's 1:30 on a Wednesday," he said hesitantly.

"Your point?"

Derek seemed to agonize over this for a few more seconds, then threw his hands in the air and laughed.  "What the hell, give it to me."

"Yeah, that's the spirit."  Dennis tossed him the can and grabbed another one for himself.

 

Six beers later, both men were considerably inebriated.  Dennis, having the higher alcohol tolerance, was happily swimming in a warm sea of booze.  Derek, on the other hand, was completely hammered.  He lay on his stomach with his face buried in his pillow, having given up any attempts to move.  Dennis sat on the floor underneath him, head lolling against the side of the bed.  They were giggling like morons, not caring if they got caught.

"You're crazy, man," Derek slurred, squirming against his mattress.

"You have no idea," Dennis responded, breaking into another round of silly laughter.  

He stopped when Derek's arm fell and brushed against his shoulder.  Going quiet, Dennis looked up and saw that his roommate had passed out.  He stared at the handsome face, its edges softened and peaceful in deep slumber.  Watching, Dennis felt the ever-present hole inside him gape open wide, and a powerful, aching desperation surged up through it, thrashing.

_You like me, don't you, Derek?  Please like me.  I like you.  We're going to be friends.  Best friends.  We'll have lots of fun together and you'll accept me for who I am, who I really am.  And maybe, maybe, I won't have to pretend with you._

Disgusted, Dennis shoved the thoughts down.  He hated himself for feelings like these.   _Hated_ himself.  It was undignified, a weakness that needed to be quashed, burned out of him with fire.  Still, he stared at his roommate, and the ache continued to pulse inside him.  Dennis rubbed his forehead groggily, groaned.  He couldn't do this again.  He couldn't lose himself, like he did with Stephen.  Cautiously, he allowed himself another look at Derek.   _Fuck, this guy is so cool_ , he thought with yearning.  There was so much to learn, to gain from bonding with him.  Exhausted, a turbulent mess of conflicted emotions twisting inside him, Dennis dragged himself over to his bed and collapsed into a dark, fitful sleep.  
      

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

In the hospital, in the sweeping tide of sedatives, memories and images moved and shifted like a kaleidoscope.  Dennis was here and then he wasn't here, 19 and then six.  18 and then 12.  He was pulled into the current and he was 16 again.  The land of milk and honey.  He was a king and the world was his kingdom.  Sunlight bathed him in its radiance like a golden crown atop his head, a glamor that bewitched all those he met into awe-eyed reverence.  He coasted in his first car: a hot red convertible, his most loyal minion by his side.  Mac, face round with baby fat, clad in that leather jacket he wore year-round in a futile effort to appear tough.  Both of them smiling, singing along to the radio.  Thin Lizzy, "The Boys are Back in Town," blasting.  

Dennis felt good.  There was no death, and summer was eternal in the Garden of Eden.  His future lay in front of him like a bountiful feast.  He could do anything he wanted to, be anything he wanted to be.  He was the most popular boy in school, and his destiny was writ by the gods in the cloudless sky.

 

*****

His memory fragmented, changed, and a gallery of other images filtered through:

Junior-year, walking down the hall.  Passing Adriano Calvanese, who he thought was his friend, elbowing one of his buddies and whispering, "Oh God, here comes that weirdo."

The idiot who sat in front of him in biology, squinting at him with disgust: "Hey, dude, are you wearing makeup?"

Black sharpie on the boys' bathroom stall: "Dennis Reynolds sucks dick."

 *****  

Derek Ritter, his now ex-roommate, cornering him in their dorm, mad-eyed and practically foaming at the mouth with rage.  "You fucked her! You fucked my girlfriend! "

Dennis, managing a smile despite his burst lip, the taste of blood like a sweet syrup filling his mouth:  "Yeah. And I'd do it again, too."

Face twisting into a white phantom mask of hysteria, Derek pressed him into the wall, screeching.  "Are you fucking crazy? I loved her, I was gonna propose to her!  Now she says she wants to 'see other people,' fuck other guys! It's all your fault!"

A crack, a bright star of pain as Derek fired a punch directly into his nose.   _Yes, yes, break it,_ Dennis thought, growing hard as he reeled back into the wall, perverse satisfaction blooming in him as he felt another warm trickle of blood dripping down his chin.  

"Why would you do that to me?" Derek screamed, the rage in his voice muddying with tears.  "Why would you fuck _her_?"

Staring up at his roommate dizzily, willing himself out of unconsciousness through sheer determination, Dennis let out a wild, crazy laugh.  "Because she was a hot piece of ass and I wanted her.  That's why."

Derek's eyes bulged, shock and disbelief filling them.  He seized hold of Dennis' shoulders, shook him until his bones rattled.  "You're a monster," he hissed.  "You're a fucking monster!"

 

*****

Dennis drifted back through time.  He was 17 again and driving too fast.  Maureen Ponderosa had dumped him; everyone else was in sunlight and he was in darkness.  He glanced into the rear-view mirror, saw a zit on his chin--a glaring imperfection, _ruination_ \--and suddenly he couldn't breathe.  His hands slipped from the wheel, the car swerved, and the world ( _his_ world) careened around him.

"Dennis, Dennis, what are you doing?"  Mac screamed--he'd forgotten Mac was there--and grabbed hold of the steering wheel, pulling the world back in place.  

They pulled over by the side of the road.  Dennis was falling, falling deep down into cold and petrifying emptiness.  He was sobbing.  Hard.  A distant sign of warning lit up in his brain.  He'd never cried in front of Mac before, he couldn't afford to cry, Dennis Reynolds didn't cry.

Oh, but he was wrong about that.  Dennis Reynolds _did_ cry.  Because he was a loser.  

_Loser, ugly, fat, crazy, freak, worthless worthless worthless worthless..._

There was warmth as Mac's arms wrapped around him, pulled him close.  Mac's voice, soft, like home: "Den, what just happened?  What's wrong?"

Burying his head into his friend's chest, Dennis made a choking sound and muttered, "Everything." 

 

*****

"Everything, everything, everything," Dennis whispered into his pillow, lids fluttering.  The current pulled him, and he sank back into unconsciousness.

 

*****

It didn't surprise him when he opened his eyes and saw Mac standing in front of his hospital bed.  His friend didn't look too good; his hair was mussed and dark circles hung under eyes that were like shattered glass.  Shifting underneath his thin blanket, Dennis let out a moan and turned away.  No, he couldn't deal with Mac now.  Mac shouldn't see him like this.  "Dennis Reynolds" would never get himself into such a degrading state, Dennis Reynolds sneered at people who ended up here.

But Mac wasn't going to let him get away with that.  "Dennis, I know you're awake."  His tone was stern, something Dennis had never heard in him before.

With a reluctant sigh, Dennis turned to face him.  He proffered an awkward grin.  "Hey, buddy.  How's it going?"

Mac's face creased, and for a terrible moment Dennis thought he was going to cry.  "Dennis, you look horrible."

Dennis' smile tensed.  God, why was he making this so hard for him.  "Oh, gee, thanks a lot, pal," he tried to say jokingly, but his voice was too flat.  And, much as he'd hate to admit it, the comment cut deep.  There were no mirrors in this godforsaken place, so he couldn't look at himself.

Mac moved closer, lips set into a grim line.  "Don't pretend like everything's okay," he said in a burst of anger.  "Because it's not.  Last night, I get a call from you saying crazy stuff about pills, so I call the police.  And next thing I know, you're in the psych ward for a 'suicide attempt.'  Of course, I'm freaking out because they're telling me my best friend in the world tried to kill himself, so I come to visit you to make sure that you're alright.  And now you sit there trying to act like nothing happened even though you're skinny and pale and you look like you haven't slept in weeks."

"You can't blame me for all of that," Dennis said, mustering a weak laugh.  He squirmed uneasily.  Mac was getting to him; images had begun shifting in his head again, ugly things he didn't want to remember.  "They wouldn't let me have my foundation," he whined.  "Goddamn savages."

Mac's eyebrows knitted.  "And what happened to your face?" he asked, waving a hand over his own nose and mouth.  "Your nose is all smashed, and your lip's busted.  Are you gonna tell me at least the truth about that?"

Dennis felt the phony cheerfulness drop off him like a shed skin.  His stomach sank.   _The truth_ , he brooded.  People didn't want the truth.  They wanted beautiful lies.  He'd learned that from experience.  After a few seconds, he answered, "Roommate troubles."

Mac hung his head, uttering a cynical laugh.  "'Roommate troubles.'"  He nodded, shoved his hands into the pockets of a battered pair of Levi's that had once been Dennis'.  "Alright.  I can see you pissing someone off enough to beat the shit out of you.  But..."  There was an uncomfortable pause, in which a violent tremor tore through his frame.  His eyes pierced into Dennis, brimming with pain and concern.  "Why'd you do it?" he blurted out, shaking.  "How could you do something like that?"  The tears came out, despite his obvious efforts to contain them, and his voice rose, became strident.  "How could you put your friends through that?   _Me_ through that?"

Dennis clung to his blanket, going rigid.  Against his will, fragments of last night began crashing into his brain, vivid like sores:  

Still raging and probably afraid that he might kill him if he stayed, Derek had fled the room, leaving Dennis a bleeding heap upon the floor.  His face was a throbbing epicenter of agony, and given the fire burning in his abdomen where Derek had punched him quite a few times, he'd thought he could very well have a fractured rib.  Gritting his teeth through the pain, he managed to stand up and hobble over to his mirror.  He took a good, hard look at his ruined face, resisting the urge to look away to amass maximum punishment.   _This is what you get,_ the cruel voice that said all his dark thoughts echoed in his head.   _This is your true face.  It's weak and pathetic and grotesque, just like you are inside._  A numbness came over him as he looked at himself.  And then it was like he wasn't looking at himself anymore, but somebody else.  He was outside of himself, watching another person sift through his things and put a CD into a stereo, skip to the last song.  "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails, a dismal funeral march.  He watched himself rummage underneath his mattress and pull out the bottle of Valium that was his daily breakfast, then take out a bottle of vodka from his mini fridge.  Surrounded by his only college friends, he sat down on his bed and picked up the phone.

Since Dennis had been avoiding Mac's daily check-ins for the past week, not wanting to lie anymore when he was asked if he was fine, Mac didn't answer right away.  Whatever.  As the phone rang, Dennis stared down at the tiny bottle he clutched in his hand.   _Take one,_ the bottle told him.  So he did.   _Take another._ He did, washing it down with a swig of vodka.  After what seemed like an eternity, Mac picked up.

"Hey, Den.  What's up?" he'd said in his stupid, puppy-dog way.  And Dennis lost it.

He wept into the phone, the words coming out garbled nonsense over his ragged breathing and the meandering train of his thoughts.  "Mac, I-I'm going to do something bad.  I n-need your help."  

"What do you mean?" Mac demanded with alarm.  "Dennis?"

Dennis wiped at his nose, smearing blood all over his hand.  He held up the bottle of pills, tipping two of them into his palm.   _Take two more._ "I have these pills," he said slowly.  "I don't know... I just want to leave myself for a while."

Mac became an annoying buzz in his ear, and Dennis hung up.  He lay back on the bed with the bottle of Valium and the vodka, giving in to the insistent voice whispering in his brain.   _Take another pill.  Take three more.  Take a handful._ The edges of his vision blurred, and he drifted into merciful darkness.

 

"Well?"  Mac screamed at him, and he was back in the hospital room.

Dennis started, jolted back into the present.  His mouth opened, twitched, but no sound came out.  He had no prepared script for this question, no real-life person or movie character to emulate.  He bit into his swollen lip, the flare of pain helping him focus.  Why did Mac have to press him so hard, he thought.  Why did he have to care so much?  Balling his hands into fists, he forced himself to meet Mac's eyes.  "Look, it was just an accident," he said wearily.  "I got a little upset, popped a few too many downers, and mixed them with booze.  It wasn't a suicide attempt or whatever nonsense they've told you."

Seeing the incredulity in Mac's look, his eyes flickered to the floor.  He swallowed, wincing; his throat was like sandpaper.  "It's already been arranged.  I'm gonna get an apartment near Penn.  No more roommates, and you can check in whenever you want.  So, can we just move past this?"  

"I can't move past it!" Mac yelled, throwing his arms in the air; if he didn't keep it down, a nurse would be in soon to scold him.  "You're lying to me!  You always lie to me!  You pretend to be happy when you're miserable, do things you hate just to maintain this impossible, ridiculous image that doesn't even do anything for you.  It just makes you angry and sad--"

Dennis shifted in the bed, igniting the pain in his stomach.   _Stop it_.

"And it sucks to have you push me away while you do these things because I love you!"

Dennis felt sick.   _Impossible,_ he thought.  Mac didn't love him.  Mac loved a mirage, a character on a movie screen, a collection of air.  Mac couldn't love _him_.   _He_ was a monster.

Mac moved in closer. He stood directly over him, more calm now and deadly serious.  "You're my best friend," he said firmly.  "I love you."

Dennis turned over on his side so that Mac couldn't see the expression on his face.  "I'm sorry," he murmured.

 

 

 

 

 

 

'

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

  

   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I fucking loved writing this chapter, guys. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. And once again, I apologize for taking forever to finish this.


	6. Chapter 6

Annoying copycat that she was, Dee followed Dennis to the psych ward later in their sophomore year for setting her roommate on fire.  She ended up dropping out of college.  Two years later, Dennis graduated--with a 3.5 average, no less.  Both his mother and father actually showed up at his graduation ceremony.  On the drive back to the house, his parents up front and Dennis squeezed in with his sister in the back of their father's Corvette, his mother turned and flashed him a smile.  "So, off to veterinary school, then?" she said, even her voice at its most pleasant containing a slight chill.

Dennis spoke without thinking: "No."

Everyone in the car stared at him, albeit a glimmer of knowing in Dee's eyes.  His mother's face tightened, showcasing wrinkles despite her stringent Botox regimen.  "What do you mean, 'No?' " she said coldly.  "What are you going to do?"

A door opened in Dennis' mind, revealing an endless expanse of white, empty space.  "I don't know," he said, realizing with shock that this was true.

"You don't know?" his father exclaimed, twisting to gape at him from the driver's seat. "What the hell did you do in those four years of college?  Twiddle your thumbs and waste my money?"

His mother closed her eyes and sighed.  "Jesus, Frank.  Don't start."

" _'Jesus, Frank!_ '"  his father shouted, turning red.  " _'Jesus, Frank!_ '"  He jabbed a pudgy finger at her.  "I shell out thousands of dollars of _my_ money for that dumbshit son of yours' education, and it turns out he's been grifting me!  What, with that bullshit 'allowance' you made me give him..."

Dee perked up in her seat.  "Allowance?  What allowance?"

"The bastard probably spent it all on hookers and blow!"

"Yes, Dad.  I spent all my money on hookers and blow,"  Dennis said dryly, inspecting his nails.

His father turned on him, spit flying from his mouth.  "Don't you sass me, you little bitch!  I'll come back there and wring your goddamn neck!"

"Frank, for God's sake, the road!" his mother shrieked.

The car had swerved into the next lane, directly in line with an oncoming truck.  All four Reynolds screamed in unison, and Frank jerked the steering wheel to the right, narrowly avoiding the other vehicle.

 

Later, Dennis went over Mac's house for a round of celebratory drinks.  His other best friend and Mac's childhood friend Charlie came over, too.  The atmosphere was a little uncomfortable at first, since Dennis hadn't really kept in contact with Charlie throughout college, but the three men relaxed with a couple of beers.  Then a couple more.  And a couple more.  It was like old times again, the trio goofing around and telling stories of whatever crazy hi-jinks they'd gotten into while apart.  At around two in the morning, Dennis and Mac sprawled out on the floor of Mac's bedroom, heads heavy and shoulders grazing, while Charlie lay in a sweaty heap in a beanbag.  With a limp hand, Mac sat up to tilt the remainder of his 7th can of beer into his mouth and let out a loud belch.

"You're disgusting," Dennis remarked, wrinkling his nose. 

With a proud, lopsided smile, Mac settled back down beside Dennis.  He prodded him with an elbow.  "So, what are you gonna do now with your fancy college degree?"

The weight of the half-full can of beer in Dennis' hand was comforting, familiar.  So was the loose, sweetly-sick sensation of the beer he'd ingested percolating through his veins.  A foggy idea hatched in his mind.  "Maybe I could open a bar."

Charlie unfurled from his cocoon.  "Oh my god, dude, that would be awesome!" he cried.

Mac's eyes widened, radiating excitement.  "What if the three of us opened a bar together?" he suggested.  "Then every day can be like this, us three buddies hanging out and drinking!"

A dazed grin began to form on Dennis' face.  "That would be cool," he decided, thinking.  Yes, it would be cool.  Bartenders were cool.   _He_ was cool.

He was too drunk and lost in thought that he barely registered Mac's beer-sticky fingers wrapping around his.  Dennis didn't protest.  He'd decided a while ago that it was better to occasionally let Mac have moments like these, in order to preserve their relationship (He'd developed a whole system for relationships, named after himself: The DENNIS System.  Its central focus was women, but men worked, too.  Two of the tenets: Engage Physically and Nurture Dependence).  Plus, it was just nice to have the assurance of touch sometimes--that special warmth.  Glancing over to check that Charlie couldn't see, Dennis squeezed Mac's hand back and offered him a quick, flashing look of tenderness before turning his eyes back to the ceiling.

He could practically feel the happiness pulsating off his friend in electric shock waves.   _Bingo,_ he thought smugly.  After a moment, Mac said, "Just so we're clear, though ... Dennis, you'll be financing the bulk of this venture."

"Oh yeah, I will most definitely be the head owner," Dennis agreed.

Mac yawned.  "Good, cause my credit's shit."  Taking his hand from Dennis', he flipped over on his side, eyelids flickering as if he were about to fall asleep.

With the expression of a child who'd just had a toy yanked away from him, Dennis stared after Mac for a few seconds, feeling a spasm of abandonment strung through with rage.  The feelings left just as quickly as they came, however, and what resurfaced was that ache again--it was his parents' doing earlier, he brooded; his mother especially had weakened him.  Dennis glanced over at Charlie and saw that he was passed out in the beanbag.  With a surge of mischievousness, he turned on his side and pressed himself against Mac.

His friend let out a resigned groan.  "Dennis, what are you doing?" he murmured.

Dennis rubbed his cheek against Mac's shoulder.  "I'm cold," he whispered coyly.

He felt Mac stiffen, withdraw.  "Then get a blanket."

Wounded but undeterred, Dennis wriggled closer, thinking, _Come on, you know you want this, goddamn it._ Mac lived to be touched by him; he'd told him that he loved him; Dennis had gleefully written that information down in his file.  Switching tactics, he craned his neck so his lips were right above Mac's ear, lowered his voice to a dusky whisper.  "I couldn't have done it without you, man.  College.  I just wanted you to know that.  You're my best friend.  I need you.  And I know you need me, too."

A pregnant pause, then Mac released a heavy breath.  "I think you and me have very different needs," he said in a flat, almost sober voice.

"What's that supposed to mean?"  Dennis reached out to touch his friend's face, but Mac moved away.

"It means that I'm not one of those girls you fuck with," he stated bluntly.  "You don't need to play weird head games with me so that I'll like you.  Dude, I'm your blood brother; I already like you.  Actually, all that manipulative shit that you do is what I _don't_ like about you.  So I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't play tricks with me."

"But I wasn't playing any tricks," Dennis protested, hurt eyes narrowing in confusion; yes, he'd been trying to manipulate Mac, but he also genuinely wanted to lie next to him.  It disappointed him that Mac couldn't see that.  His twin sister Dee would have been able to.  

Mac didn't understand him at all, Dennis brooded, angrily rolling over on his other side when it became clear that Mac wasn't going to relent.  The sad part, he figured,  was that Mac wanted to understand, but every time Dennis tested him, he came up short.  Bringing Dennis bagels and coffee in the morning when he knew damn well he only took coffee ("Why must you tempt me with carbs, you unhinged psychopath?" Dennis had shouted at him, hurling bread and cups of coffee across the room).  Demurring when Dennis flipped to a Ted Bundy documentary on the TV ("I know you're super into this true crime crap, bro, but it's totally weird and freaky").

Dennis frowned, curling up into a fetal position.  Would anyone understand him?  How could they, when he didn't really understand himself?  Then again, maybe it was better that way, he reflected.  To be understood was to be exposed.  Unmasked.  And Dennis knew that what lay under his mask wasn't very pretty.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

They bought a bar and christened it Paddy's Pub.  The location wasn't so great, tucked away in a dark corner in one of Philadelphia's seedier districts.  The building itself wasn't so great, either, the interior cramped and dark and the architecture outdated.  But it was theirs.  Well, Dennis' really, since he was the reason they were able to get the loan.  Whatever, though.  Theirs, technically his.  He'd let Mac and Charlie believe what they wanted, as long as they recognized who the real boss was and deferred to him in all business decisions.  Like hiring Dee as their waitress.  Mac put up a good fight at first, but gave in when assured that as their employee, Dee would be forever beneath them and thus open for constant abuse.  Initially, things were a little rocky, but they eventually reached an equilibrium.  Not many girls came to the bar, but that was okay because he had The DENNIS System providing him with plenty.  He moved into an apartment with Mac, an obvious decision.  Time passed.  Life was good.  Dennis was in charge and in control.

 

*****

"Fuck me harder!"  the girl screamed, bucking against the wooden desk.  Her tan, firm legs flailed in the air as Dennis thrust himself inside her.  

Brushing sweaty curls from his eyes, Dennis began riding her more roughly.  Her large tits bounced up and down, stoking the bright flame that was gathering inside him.  They were in the back office of Paddy's, which he'd owned for going on five years now; she lay naked, thighs parted on top of the desk, while he hunched over her, jeans undone and slipping down his pale hips.  Vaguely, Dennis entertained a flicker of concern that the rest of the Gang would come back from whatever scheme they were up to (he himself had forgotten) and find them here.  After all, they were making an awful fuckload of noise.   _And I care about that because?_  a bored voice piped up inside his head, and he grinned deviously to himself.  If anything, having an audience would turn him on more.  He imagined Mac watching them with a confused look of appalment and arousal, then excusing himself to the men's bathroom to masturbate.  Dennis closed his eyes, savoring the image.  Oh fuck, that was hot...

"I'm sorry about your dog," his partner gasped, pulling him out of his fantasy.  A "lost" rescue dog and Dennis' frantic search for it had brought them together in the park earlier that day.  When their combined efforts weren't enough to find the non-existent animal, she'd accepted the invitation for drinks and consoling talk at the bar.  A couple of crocodile tears and some Long Islands he'd made extra-strong had brought them here, fucking on top of a Goodwill desk in a dusty and poorly lit room.  

"Oh yes," Dennis said distractedly, letting out a grunt as he felt himself get close. "Spot was the world to me."

"I thought his name was Sammy," the girl said, confused.

 _Shit._ "Yeah, whatever."

Dennis gave a hard, deep thrust which incited a delighted squeal and thankfully seemed to clear her mind.  He spurred on, grunting and blissful.  Never was he happier than at a moment like this, waist-deep in pussy.  All the anxiety and the bad thoughts melted away with the touch of the sweet, tight flesh, the tits, the high-pitched noises issuing from the pretty throat.  And in that moment, that preciously encapsulated piece of time that could last minutes or hours depending on what he wanted, Dennis was powerful.  He was perfect and he was god, as he was always meant to be.  All the stars were aligned and all was right with the universe.  

Blowing his load into a smoking hot ten, he thought--even with smeared mascara and blond hair half-covering her face like Sandy here--that was the only time he ever truly felt real.  In one great propulsive rush, Dennis came, crouching over the desk with a moan of ecstasy.  Shuddering, he lay his cheek against Sandy's impressive chest, taking pleasure in the sound of her heart beating in the same rabbit rhythm as his.  His eyelids fluttered in languid contentment.  He ignored the sound of Sandy's disappointed groan and her hand moving between her thighs.  This was peace, he decided.  A minute later, he heard her come, and he suddenly became aware of himself.  His disheveled hair.  The stench coming off his clothes.  The booze bloating his stomach.  A vague feeling of dread then rose inside him.  Too bad the peace never lasted long.  

 

*****

The years flew by in one great, chaotic blur.  Dennis let the past flow through his fingers like water.  As he and his friends drank more, their memories deteriorated.  Gradually, personal history became malleable, and Dennis couldn't distinguish the truth that he knew about himself from the lies he told the people around him.  After years of estrangement, his father showed up at the bar to announce that he and Dennis' mother were getting a divorce.  By the end of the day, he'd bought the bar and anointed himself the manager.  Dennis' world was thrown off its axis.  He and Dee quit their jobs to become wealthy and winded up getting addicted to crack.  A trip to rehab and everything was fine again.  Except for a few minor hiccups, like finding out that Frank Reynolds wasn't actually his biological father, his mother dying during a neck lift surgery, and getting held hostage by a family of incestuous hicks.  There was also Frank whoring him out to pay off a debt to the Mob...

 

The upbeat music of Stacey Q's "Two of Hearts" pumped out of a small radio sitting on the dresser.  Usually, Dennis couldn't resist dancing whenever he heard the poppy rhythm, but now he was having to force it.  He shimmied his shoulders and swayed his hips robotically, his skin crawling under the gaze of the fat woman watching him from the bed.  From the corner of his vision, he could see her crane her neck to look down his thin, pinstriped shirt, the first three buttons undone to expose his chest.  

Dennis didn't like the predatory gleam in her eye.  It stirred up unpleasant images in his head: librarian glasses, him a lanky and mop-headed 14-year-old, arthritic hands pulling down the zipper of his jeans.  The click of a door locking.  Nausea built up in his throat.

He staggered, cupping one hand over his mouth.  "I...I can't do this," he gasped, shaking his head.

"You'd better."  Frank Reynolds was sitting in a chair next to the bed, eating Fruit Loops from a gold chalice he'd bought with their earnings.  Dennis' earnings, really, since he was the one doing all the work.  Frank gestured at the woman.  "This young lady here has already paid for your services."

The "young lady," who had to be at least 60 years old, gave a smile that revealed a mouthful of stained and crooked teeth.

A wave of dizziness rollicked over Dennis.  "I don't feel good..."  

Frowning, Frank hopped off his chair and walked over to examine him.  He turned and gave the woman a sleazy smile.  "Excuse us, won't you, ma'am?  I need to speak with my bitch for a minute."

Placing an arm across Dennis' back, Frank ushered him into the hall, giving the woman another smile as he closed the door.  

"Frank, you gotta call this off," Dennis pleaded once they were alone.  "Give her a refund or something.  I feel like I'm..."

Frank abruptly slapped him across the face.  Stunned, Dennis raised one hand to his cheek.  "Hey, what gives, man?  I--"

Frank cut him off with another slap.  Dennis' eyes watered.  His voice grew soft and wavery like that of a wounded child.  "Why are you hitting me?"

"I'm knocking some sense into you," Frank asserted.  He pointed at the door, his stance firm and commanding.  "You gotta go back in there and do your job.  Whores don't give refunds."

"But I feel like I'm gonna throw up!"

"Tough shit.  I say you gotta do it, so you're doing it."

Dennis scoffed.  "You're not the boss of me!"

In response, Frank delivered yet another slap.  This one hit Dennis straight across the mouth, and there was a sickening chomp as he bit down on his tongue.  He sputtered, spat out blood.

"I _am_ the boss of you," Frank said decisively.  He motioned from himself to Dennis.  "I'm your pimp and you're my ho.  So, as long as I'm setting up these janes and taking care of you, you do as I say.  Got it?"

Reluctantly, Dennis nodded.

"Good," Frank said.  He wiped the blood from Dennis' chin with a handkerchief, his expression softening.  "Sorry about that last slap.  You know I don't want to hit you, baby."   

Dennis sniffed, rubbing at the spot.  "Uh-huh."

Frank took his hand, soothing it in his palm.  It occurred to Dennis then that he couldn't remember the last time his father had touched him in this way, and he warmed inside.  "You feel like you're gonna throw up?"  Frank asked him in a gentler, concerned tone.

Dennis nodded.  

Frank let go of his hand and pushed open the door.  "Bang this chick and I'll let you throw up as much as you want," he said, returning to his usual blunt manner.  "It's good for you, anyway.  Keeps you thin and pretty."

Dennis stared at him, eyes huge and lost.  "You think I'm pretty?" he said after a moment.

Frank gave him a warm smile.  "Like Kate Moss."

"Ohmygod," Dennis choked, swallowing a sob of joy.  "I always wanted to be Kate Moss."  A pang of yearning struck inside his chest.  To live like that, among the demigods in a world of luxury and the golden flash of camera bulbs, far and away from the hard knocks and troubles of the world below.  Why hadn't he seriously pursued a modeling career?  Why hadn't he pursued  _anything_ _?_

A weird look flickered across Frank's face, but he quickly replaced it with another smile.  "Well, maybe once we get out of this whole mess with the Mob, I can look into that for ya," he said, patting Dennis on the back.  "In the meantime..."

Dennis had no idea what Frank was saying.  Then again, he didn't care.  He took a deep breath and steeled himself.  "Wish me luck."

Frank saluted him.  "Godspeed."

Dennis forced out of his head another volley of images: bookshelves, gray stockings, a discarded Calvin Klein hoodie lying on the floor.   _Stop it,_ he scolded himself.   _The past is past._ Swallowing bile, he turned and entered the room.

 

 

 

 

   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene with Sandy is supposed to happen during what would have been season one of the show. Since Mac declares that he's 28 in that season, and since Mac and Charlie are supposed to be a little older than Dee and Dennis, I figured Dennis was probably 26 or 27 at that time. The scene with Dennis as a prostitute is inspired by "The Gang Gets Whacked Part 2" of season three, and thus takes place roughly two years later.


	8. Chapter 8

Dennis was 32 years old and married to Maureen Ponderosa.  About to be divorced, actually.  As it turned out, marriage life wasn't all it was cracked up to be.  The first 24 hours after they signed the papers had been great: he felt whole and complete for the first time in ages, and she proved to be just as feisty in bed as he'd known her to be in high school.  It was the next 24 hours where things quickly went to shit.  Strange how someone can be so amazing and perfect one day and then become crazy and terrible the next, he thought.  Because Maureen was _crazy_ : her teenage fondness for cats had become a full-blown obsession, she had no job, and she clung to him like a fucking fungus.  Worst of all, she had a dead tooth--funny, he didn't remember her having one in high school.  So perhaps he rushed into things by marrying her within three hours of meeting again after 14 years.  Ah, well.  

Dennis vented all of this to Mac at the bar that second night, the two men leaning into each other as they were wont to do when they were drunk and no one else was around, the drunker one (Dennis) using the other as a crutch.  Mac listened as attentively as he could for a person who could barely keep his eyes open, propping his whole body up by the counter.  

"Y'know, this is thuh best night I've had since I married that...that psychotic bitch," Dennis confessed, slinging one arm loosely around Mac's shoulder.  With the other, he tipped a glass of Absolut and Sprite into his mouth.

"It's only the second night you've been married to her, bro," Mac pointed out.

Dennis gave a loud, raucous laugh.  "So?"

Shaking his head, Mac took a drink.  "You're an asshole, you know that?"

Dennis swayed into his friend.  "Whaddaya mean?"

Flustered by Dennis' nearness, Mac shifted upon the stool and gulped down more liquor.  "You kicked me out of the apartment so you could marry this chick, and now you want to kick her out, too."

Even in its current condition, Dennis's brain could still penetrate keenly into another person's mind, picking it apart with the sharp incisiveness of a surgeon's blade.  Mac was still sulking over the fact that he'd ditched him for Maureen.   _Poor, lost puppy-dog_ , Dennis mused.   _Time to come home to Master._   His lips slid into a sly, teasing smile.  "Wanna come over?" he said huskily.

Mac drew a trembling breath.  "I don't...I don't know if that's..."

"Maureen's asleep.  She texted me goodnight three hours ago."  Dennis reached up with one hand and tucked a strand of hair behind Mac's ear.  The movement was charged with electricity.  "Let's say we take this party back home."

After a moment, Mac stammered back, "Alright."

Luckily, the apartment was a six minute drive, so they managed to make it back without any major collisions.  "The Boys Are Back in Town" had come on the radio along the way, and the two were still howling out the lyrics when they kicked open the apartment door.  They danced into the kitchen, singing.  "The boys are back in town!  The boys are back in tow-ow-ow-own!  Da da da da dah da.  Da da da da dah da.  Da da da da dah dah dah dah da dah da da!"

"Dennis?"  Clad in a kitten pajama top and sweats, Maureen padded into the room, rubbing at her eyes.  "What are you doing?"  she complained, her voice thin with annoyance.  "It's two in the morning.  I was sleeping."

Dennis waved a hand at her dismissively.  "Well, you're up now, baby-girl.  So, let's do some shots!"

"No," Maureen said, crossing her arms and her face drawing into a disapproving pout.  "I don't drink.  You know that.  I think it makes people look ugly."

Dennis frowned.   _Ugly?_

There was an awkward moment of silence.  Breaking the tension, Mac let out a sleepy grunt.  "I think I'd better go to my room..."

"That is not your room anymore," Maureen told him sternly.  "It is my craft studio.  So kindly stay out of there."

"What?"  Mac pointed, aghast, at the open door to his room, which was now filled with piles of dollar-store sweatshirts, paint, and kitten stencils.

Dennis reached out to pat his shoulder.  "Don't freak out.  'S all good, dude," he assured him.  "She turned it into her craft studio where she makes terrible sweatshirts out of cats or...puts cats in sweatshirts." He gestured helplessly with his hands, eyebrows furrowed; a thick sludge of confusion had begun seeping into his head.   "And then I'm like, 'dude, what the hell did you do?'"

Maureen stared at him in alarm.  "Dennis, do not talk to me that way.  I am your wife.  Please show me some respect in front of your friends."

"Uh, you know what?  I'm not entirely certain that you are my wife," Dennis retorted, a small fissure of anger opening inside him.  How dare she tell him what to do.  As _his_ wife, in front of  _his_ friend.  " _I_ remember marrying Maureen Ponderosa, and _you--_ " he jabbed a finger at her accusingly--"are no Maureen Ponderosa."

"That doesn't even..."

"Divorce!"  he shouted, cutting her off.

Maureen stiffened.  "What did you just say?" she said softly.

"I'll divorce you, Maureen," he declared.  "I'll do it."

She took a moment to process his words, then attempted to placate him. "Okay, you're drunk.  Why don't we just go to bed--"

"I'm not drunk,"  Dennis protested stubbornly.  "I'm more sober than I've ever been in my entire life."  He wobbled, nearly falling backwards into the table.  "Alright, I'm a little bit drunk," he admitted.  "But my mind is sober.  And my mind is telling me the following: I don't love you, Maureen.  I never loved you.  You're _annoying_ and you're _strange_."

For a second, Maureen's eyes grew moist, and her upper lip trembled.  Then, all at once her face became blank, and Dennis found himself weirdly disappointed.  She gave a dismal shrug.  "I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything,"  he shot back at her irritably.  "Because every time that you open your mouth, I'm like, 'ugh."  He turned to Mac, waving a hand in front of his nose and giggling.  Mac giggled along with him.  "Her breath is always so _bad_.  It's the dead tooth."  He turned back to Maureen, all the frustration that had been building inside him for the past several hours unleashing itself.  "You have a dead tooth.  You realize that, right?  And I hate it!  And it's _annoying_!"

Maureen tightened her palms into fists.  She spoke with a taut, steely resolve.  "I want you and your boy-toy out of my apartment.  Now."

Mac and Dennis burst into laughter.  "I'm the boy-toy," Mac chuckled, looking up at Dennis with a glimmer of satisfaction.

"You're my boy-toy,"  Dennis confirmed.  Leaning over, he picked up a bottle from the table and began pouring two more drinks.  "You know," he started calmly, "I'm not going to leave _my_ apartment."  He cast Maureen a smile as chilling as a graveyard on a pitch-black night. "Cause it's my apartment."

Maureen lifted her chin. "Oh yeah?  How about if you guys don't leave, I call the cops and tell them that you beat me?"  Her eyes flashed, as if to say,  _You know you're capable of it._

Dennis scoffed.  "What in the hell are you talking about?  I didn't touch you."  He raised one hand to his ear, fiddled with it nervously.  Although vibrating with rage, Maureen's frame was slight, delicate.  It would be so easy to hurt her if he wanted to.  To plant bruises on the peach-soft skin.  To wrap his fingers intimately around the long stem of her throat and strangle the breath out of it...   _No, stop it,_ he thought.  He could never do that, would never...

Her features scrunched up in a scowl of determination, Maureen raised one of her fists and began pounding it against her chest.

"What is that?  What is she doing?" 

"Oh, shit," Mac cried, jolting up out of his seat.  "That's from Fear, dude!  That's Marky-Mark!  He does that."

Dennis looked at him, eyes widening as he remembered.  "And then the cops think that William Peterson did it!"

"Let's get out of here!"

Grabbing the beer, they hastily left the apartment.  The meaty sound of Maureen continuing to hit herself echoed down the hall.  "Oh shit, oh shit," Dennis kept muttering as they piled into the Range Rover and sped over to the bar.  There was no worry of them getting in a wreck this time, as the ordeal had made them both distressingly sober.  Slowing into Paddy's parking lot, he ran his fingers through his hair, for once not caring that his curls would be in disarray.  Fuck it, he had bigger problems at hand.  Just then, a soft beep emitted from his cellphone, indicating that he'd received a text message.  Dennis flipped the phone open to view the screen.

_You really haven't changed at all, have you._

Before Mac could see it, he flipped the phone closed and shoved it back into his jeans pocket, feeling cold.  It should have been a compliment, considering how much he disliked change.  But his memory of his and Maureen's relationship in high school was coming back now.  How many times she broke up with him, how many times he called her on the phone to beg her to come back.  Following her, leaving notes in her locker, and sending her flowers until she gave in again with his assurance that this time, _this time,_ he'd be different.  He'd  _change_.

Dennis uttered a low, sickened moan.

"You alright, man?" Mac said from the passenger seat.

Dennis rubbed his forehead; his hands were shaking.   _Move past it, just move past it._ "Let's go in there and drink until we pass out."  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you all have probably noticed, the scene in the apartment is an almost line-for-line copy of the scene from season six's "Dennis Gets Divorced."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a few eating disorder triggers here, plus more Dennis-style mental illness.

Tim Murphy's wife walked away from Dennis as fast as her high heels and bandage dress could take her, thoroughly disgusted.  The revels of the high school reunion blithely carried on.  The music went on playing, "Hungry Eyes," and his former classmates went on talking and reminiscing all around him, not noticing him.  Not noticing him.  A slow, delicate crack formed in Dennis' consciousness.  He licked his lips, sputtering, still reeling from shock, still attempting to process that he'd been rejected.  Then, slowly, he felt his hands begin to curl into fists and his teeth clench.  He felt more acutely than ever the thick plaster of foundation cracking on his face.  The constriction of the girdle he wore under a suit that would have fit him in high school.  The hunger pangs tearing through his stomach like talons because he hadn't eaten in he couldn't remember how many days to prepare for this and still hadn't eaten even though he was surrounded by heaps of delicious food.  The cold spiders of panic climbing up his back.  And then the world screamed.

Well, his world, anyway.

"Oh yeah, 'ew," he shouted, mimicking what she'd said when he propositioned her.  "Well, your husband is a liar, how about that, Christy?  Your husband is a liar!"  Heads turned in his direction, eyes on him at last.  Not the kind of eyes he wanted.  Not rapt and adoring eyes worshiping his every movement, but eyes glinting with confusion and scorn that threw him off kilter.  His voice broke, spiraled upwards.  "Tim Murphy does not deserve to become king of the mountaintop."

The music and talking halted and it was just him by himself, railing like one of those insane hobos standing atop soapboxes on the streets of Philadelphia with one hand flying through the air, the other clinging anxiously to his drink.  A small part of him knew he was losing it, but he couldn't stop himself.  He was unraveling, unraveling... Spit flew from his mouth as he stalked through the room.  " _I_ reign supreme over everyone in this school.   _I_ am the Golden God of this place! _I_ reign supreme!"

" _I!!_ " Dennis screamed, and one woman jumped.  " _I!!"_

He shoved through the auditorium doors into the parking lot, shaking with rage.  Immediately, he ripped off his jacket, allowing his chest to expand so he could breathe comfortably at last.  The cool night air felt good against his burning skin.  Muttering to himself, he marched towards his car, his body and mind centered with white hot focus on one thing: revenge.  Tools, he thought in a feverish haze.  He would need his tools...

Dennis remembered the rest of the night in bits and pieces.  The Gang christened him as the new Psycho Pete of this thing called the Freight Train.  He'd wanted to dispute it, as he'd known the original Psycho Pete: the guy was a maniac, and that wasn't him--no, that wasn't what he was.  However, his brain was too muddled, a dozen loud voices racing inside it, and it was just easier to go along.  He challenged Tim Murphy to a fight, which the wimp chickened out of.  There was one thing, though, that he recalled with distinct clarity, because it would echo in a dark inner voice throughout the rest of his life.  Tim Murphy saying, "Will you relax?  Nobody turned anyone against you.  You were never that cool to begin with."

 You were never that cool to begin with, Dennis would think, staring at his face in the mirror and seeing lines in the outer corners of his eyes.  You were never that cool to begin with.  Feeling a sudden wave of dizziness as he bent over the bar because he hadn't eaten breakfast or lunch that day.  You were never that cool to begin with.  Being in mid-plow and realizing that it wasn't so much that he preferred meaningless sex over relationships as it was that he was incapable of sustaining a relationship, so meaningless sex was all he had.  You were never that cool to begin with.  When Mac gained a ton of weight as if being fat were acceptable, as if it wasn't one of the biggest kinds of betrayal he could ever show him.  You were never that cool to begin with, a voice whispered in the shadowy recesses of his mind.  You were never that cool to begin with.

 _Screw that_ , he thought, watching his eyes grow steely and vindictive in the mirror.  He just needed to work harder.  Dennis clutched the bathroom counter, squaring his shoulders in grim determination.  He needed to regain control of his life, whatever the costs.  Then the universe would be righted again.

 

*****

 

If only he could stop time, Dennis found himself thinking more and more as he grew older.  If only he could freeze everything around him, capture it like a photograph or an insect in a glass jar.  Take a moment that he was happy and preserve it forever.  Preserve himself forever so that he wouldn't have to sit back and watch every single thing he thought was true about himself (or at least pretended was true) wither into nothingness.  

Dennis had believed that he was the leader of the Gang, the one that all the others turned to.  But Mac, Frank, and Charlie proved him wrong when they left him in the dark completely to pull an elaborate joke on Dee.  He and she both thought that she was finally gaining fame with her lame comedy act.  He intercepted her before her jet was supposed to take off to LA and begged her to take her with him.  "I love you," he said.  It was the truth, but it was also a last-ditch effort to reel her back into his realm of control.  

Anything remotely heartfelt that came from him was at least part manipulation; he knew no other way.

 Frank later gleefully told him that the jet had just taken her in circles for an hour before landing right back in Philly, where they unveiled that Dee's rise to stardom was a prank.  It didn't matter that it all turned out to be phony; his friends spurned him all the same.  

Dennis had believed that he was a skilled player, a master of erotic conquests.  But The Dennis System stopped pulling in as many women as it used to.  He was forced to lower himself to bedding more and more 5's and 6's to sate his libido, which if anything had become more voracious over the years.  The need for sex increased in line with the sense of emptiness that pervaded every aspect of his life.  The giant hole inside him swelled.  Little by little, he could feel it swallowing parts of him; soon, there'd be nothing left.  Soon, Dennis knew the void would grow so wide and so black that he'd sink into it and never return.  He'd either kill himself or someone else or spend the rest of his days in a mental hospital, a barely human shell waiting for oblivion.  All he could do was try to suspend the inevitable.  Toss reality into a dark room in a basement and throw away the key.  Take a drink, smoke some crack, pop a pill, plow puss.  Binge and purge, throw shit, scream his voice hoarse, cry his makeup off, bleed.

Move past it, move past it.

 

*****

Thanksgiving went down in flames.  Literally.  The dinner they invited their enemies to in the hopes of reconciliation had deteriorated into a food fight.  Dennis and the Gang retreated into the hall to escape the shower of mashed potatoes and other foods being flung across the kitchen.  "Do I smell smoke?"  Mac said, and flung open the door to his room to reveal bright tongues of orange and yellow dancing across his bed.  

"I may have started a money fire," Frank admitted.

They did the only thing they could do in that situation: drill nails into the exit, call the fire department, and flee to Charlie's apartment.  Looking back, Dennis didn't know why they hadn't just gone to Dee's, because the heating had been shut off at Charlie's and the whole place was an icebox.  They bundled up with blankets on the floor and watched the unrated version of Thundergun Express on Charlie's tiny TV.  As the movie played, Dennis thought of the flames tearing through Mac's room and wondered how much of the apartment they'd destroyed.  Maybe the firefighters hadn't gotten there in time, and the whole place had burned down.  To his surprise, he realized that he didn't care.

Let the place burn, he thought.  Everything burned down, sooner or later.     

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go, guys. I'm kind of sad. This has been a really fun fic to write.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter, folks! Hope you enjoy it. :)

_When you were young_  
_You were the king of carrot flowers_  
_And how you built a tower tumbling through the trees_  
_In holy rattlesnakes that fell all around your feet_

 _-_ Neutral Milk Hotel, "King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1"

 

*****

Dennis sat on the floor of Dee's bedroom, clutching his knees to his chest, naked but for a thin white towel wrapped haphazardly around his torso.  He was 40 years old. Distantly, he could feel the prickle of his slick, goosebumped skin in the cool air, the water dripping from his curls.  A frigid chill ran through him and his teeth chattered, but he didn't dare move.  It was imperative that he sit very very still.  If he sat very very still and didn't move, then maybe this would all go away.  

He heard the beep of his phone receiving yet another text message.  The 40th one so far this morning.  Dennis had ignored most of them.  This one, on impulse, he decided to read.  His phone sat a foot away from him on the ground, so by quickly sliding his eye downward he was able to see the screen before the message faded away. Mac (of course): THATS IT I'M COMING OVER.

A run-on sentence--typical.  Dennis savored a tiny pinpick of annoyance at his friend; it was a nice distraction from what he was currently feeling.  The sharp sting in his hand was another distraction, as was the warmth seeping out of it. 

Suddenly, he heard the door to Dee's apartment being ripped open and heavy footsteps racing towards the room.  Clumsy, uncoordinated footsteps.  Then a loud pounding on the door, and Mac's voice shouting from the other side, tense and angry.  "Dennis, open this door right now.  I swear to god."

Dennis said nothing.  Speaking involved moving the mouth, and even an action that small was treacherous.  Mac's voice rose louder, more confident.  "Dennis, open up this door or I will kick it down."

 _I'd like to see that,_ Dennis thought scornfully, but still did not respond.

There was a beat of silence, Mac waiting for him to let him in.  Realizing that he wasn't going to, Mac said, "Alright.  You made me do this."

The door began to rattle and shake as a series of violent blows unleashed upon it from the outside.  Dennis could practically see Mac flailing his leg in a pathetic attempt to roundhouse kick it in.  After a moment, the blows became more forceful, as if Mac was now throwing his entire body weight against the door.  The doorframe cracked and the hinges creaked, slowly giving way.  All at once, with a hideous splinter of wood, the door burst open.  

"Holy shit!"  Mac stumbled into the room, waving his hands frantically to keep from falling.  Regaining his balance, he took note of Dennis sitting against the wall, and Dennis saw the brief light of excitement from barging in that had flickered in his face immediately snuff out.

Mac's eyes widened, both from wariness and concern.  He spoke in a careful, soothing manner.  "Hey, buddy.  Why aren't you at the bar yet?  I tried to call you to check in, but you wouldn't answer.  So then Dee tried to call, and Charlie, and Frank..."  His words trailed on.  

Dennis only stared at Mac blankly.  

Slowly, Mac moved towards him, as if he were a coiled cobra that could snap at him at any minute.  His gaze lingered upon the towel that was the only barrier preventing him from witnessing Dennis nude.  He swallowed.  "You just get out of the shower?"

Dennis finally decided to speak.  "Yeah. About two hours ago."  His voice sounded weak and distant, as if coming from the end of a dark tunnel; in a way, that was true.

Frowning, Mac knelt on the floor in front of him.  "Why aren't you dressed, then?"

Dennis clutched his knees tighter against his chest.  "Didn't feel like it."

Mac stared at him for a few seconds, taking in his friend's strange behavior, his large brown eyes emanating kindness despite the fear lurking in their corners.  Then, attempting to rejuvenate an air of  enthusiasm, he clapped his hands together.  "Come on, let's get you some clothes," he said with labored cheerfulness.

He reached out to take hold of Dennis' arm, then gasped and yanked his arm away, the contrived gusto draining from his face.  "Dennis, you're bleeding!" 

"Mm-hm."

Mac sputtered.  "How'd did you--what did you..."

Dennis closed his eyes.  Opened them.  "I hit the mirror."

"Why the hell would you do that?"

Dennis turned to look at his friend.  Tears blurred his vision, clotted his throat.  "Because I have grey hair and wrinkles and I'm not beautiful anymore."  His voice cracked on the last few syllables, twisting with unbridled anguish.  And before he could stop himself, he started crying.

Mac's eyebrows crinkled.  "Oh, Den don't say that.  You're still handsome."  Tentatively, he rubbed Dennis' shoulder, the part that the towel covered.

Dennis took in a shaky breath, wiped his nose.  "Not according to the girls on that stupid website."  With an aggressive flick of his wrist, he gestured over at the laptop sitting on the bed.  The window was still open on his profile for Raters.com, the dating site that they all had briefly become obsessed with a year ago that allowed people to rate their dates.  Last night, Dennis had logged in after yet another in a long series of failed dates--just out of curiosity.  The girl had given him 1 star, keeping his score at an abysmal zero out of five, one of the lowest scores in the entire city of Philadelphia.  To add insult to injury, at the very moment that he saw his rating, Dee squawked at him from the living room to hurry up and look at the TV.  They were running the episode of Family Fight in which the Gang had competed, and Dennis walked in just in time to see the onscreen version of himself wince as the buzzer sounded for giving a wrong answer.  Dee managed to sass him into watching the whole episode ("You're living in _my_ apartment, remember?").  When on-screen Dennis went up to play Fast Money, she turned up the volume.  Dennis walked out when his television self collapsed on the ground in a fetal position, buckling under the noise of the buzzer.  Whimpering, "This doesn't represent me," over and over.       

  _Well, maybe it_ does  _represent you,_ a voice had hissed inside his head as he'd walked out of the living room that night, Dee snickering behind him.   _Maybe it represents exactly who you are.  Who you really are._

He hadn't sleep at all later.  The fact that he now had to share a bed with three different people as per the rules of the bet he'd lost to Frank didn't help with that.  Dennis had lain awake all night on his side, all too conscious of the presence of his twin sister sleeping stiffly on her back next to him, the snores of Mac slumbering in enviable peace on the other side of her, and the weight of Old Black Man lying horizontally along the end of the mattress.  Through the tired, crusted slits of his eyes, he watched the feeble rays of dawn filter through the room and pretended to be asleep when Mac and Dee got up.  Typically, he slept later than they did, anyway, so it wasn't unusual enough for him to still be in bed at 10 am or later.  He lay in bed for a few minutes after they'd left the apartment, gathering the motivation to get up.  Taking deep and steady breaths, snatching up the faded and worn-out fragments of his ego with the usual pep-talk:   _Come on, Dennis, you can do this.  You're the Golden God.  Time to get out and show the idiots and savages of the world what a superior being looks like._   This was something he'd had to do more and more often now.  Psych himself up just to start the day.  After a few more minutes, he staggered out of bed and into Dee's bathroom, at that point carefully avoiding the mirror because he didn't quite have the strength to deal with what he'd find.  When he stepped out of the shower, scrubbed fresh and clean with lavender-scented soap,  he felt almost good--until he wiped away the fog on the mirror and saw his reflection.  

A vise clamped itself over his heart, and he almost screamed.  The face staring back at him was gaunt, sick-looking.  Its skin had an ashen, malnourished pallor, with ruddy patches here and there.  Dark half-moons hung under the eyes, which still sparkled in the orange vanity light.  However, their blue had dimmed, marred by red cracks.  

A harsh ringing noise went off in his head, and like a tape, a conversation he'd had not too long ago with Dee began to play back in his memory.  

_"You're going bald."_

_"I'm going bald?  Where in the hell am I going bald?"_

_"In the back of your head."_

_"There's-there's no evidence of that..."_

_"Also, I see fat spilling down the back of your pants on a regular basis."_

Even then, he'd known that she was just trying to get to him because he'd told her she was too old to try to be an actress anymore.  But it didn't dull the pain the words brought any less.  

The tape in his head switched, began playing other things he didn't care to hear.

_"You were 14.  So, technically, you were raped."_

_"Everything I do, I do for you, and everything you do you do for yourself!"_

_"Your symptoms are consistent with what is known as borderline personality disorder.  I'm prescribing pills that should help somewhat with the mood swings, but the most effective treatment is therapy.  At least once a week, I'd recommend."_

_"Get lost, creep!"_

_"You don't wanna be almost 40 and working at a bar."_

That's when he struck out and shattered the mirror with his fist.  Anything to make it stop.  There was an explosion of pain in his hand, the silvery tinkering of glass shards hitting the bathroom tile, vivid smears of crimson.  But all of that faded to a fuzzy blur in the face of a powerful, spiraling fit of despair that seized hold of him and plunged him into a state of lowness such as that he'd never experienced in his entire life.  At that moment, he wished for all of the worst things that had ever happened to him to happen again.  He wished that he'd jumped off his balcony the countless times he'd meant to when he was a teenager, but had been too afraid.  He wished that Mac hadn't called the police when he overdosed in college.  He even wished that he and the Gang hadn't been rescued when their cruise ship sank last summer.  They'd deserved to die.  He'd deserved to die.  If for no other reason than to  save him from the slow, agonizing death that was happening to him on the inside.  To save him from his own weakness, his true and utter _worthlessness_.

So, he sat down on the floor, still dripping wet from the shower.  Not bothering to dry his hair, put on clothes, or fix the mess that was his face with makeup.  Deciding to not bother doing anything, any longer.

 

Now, here was Mac, staring at the laptop and shaking his head.  "Dennis, this ratings stuff doesn't mean anything.  You saw what happened with Dee.  She was just giving guys zero stars for the hell of it.  And who cares what a bunch of lousy chicks think, anyway?"

"I care," Dennis said, softly but firmly, looking at Mac with a hard glint in his red-rimmed eyes.  "I care."

Silence fell.  Mac folded the laptop and came towards Dennis, sitting next to him on the floor.  His lips pursed in tender contemplation.  "I know you do, bro.  But look, you can't hide in your room forever.  Especially since you're bleeding all over the place."

Dennis stared down at himself.  His bare legs looked pale and vulnerable, a vaguely feminine softness to their delicate curves.  Inexplicably, he felt an impulse to scratch at them, etch scarlet ribbons into the flesh with his nails.  He looked up and the impulse melted away before the warmth of Mac's big puppy eyes.  "Okay, I'll get up," he conceded.  "But you have to do something for me.  Give me five stars."

"Huh?"

Dennis turned so that they were facing each other.  "Five stars," he repeated.  He hesitated, shivering as another chill ran through him.  "Tell me five good things about Dennis Reynolds."

Mac scrunched up his face, thinking.  "Alright," he said, and his lips slid into a small smile.  "Five good things about Dennis Reynolds."  He shifted his shoulders, drumming his palm against the floor to concentrate.  The first thing he said came out shyly, eliciting a slight flush from his cheeks.  "Dennis Reynolds is beautiful."

Dennis closed his eyes and leaned in, letting the words wash over him like healing waters.   _Yes, of course,_ he thought.   _Go on._   

"Dennis Reynolds is smart." 

  _Yes._

"Dennis is good with words."

Dennis nodded, urging him on.

"Dennis makes good plans."

Mac paused.  Dennis snapped his eyes open, wondering why he'd stopped, and saw that Mac's face was now hovering dangerously close to his, a hypnotized intensity in his gaze.  He waited a beat or two, just long enough for a warm ripple of pleasure to move through him as he sucked up every last drop of his friend's adoration like a parasite.   _Love me, love me._ Then he pointedly shoved Mac's face away.  "What the hell do you think you're doing?"  He made sure to infuse as much coldness and outrage as possible into his voice.

Stunned, Mac stammered, blinking in confusion.  "N-nothing man, I..."  

"It sure as shit doesn't look like nothing!"

Mac made a few anxious noises, casting about for something to say.

Dennis stood up carefully, clutching the towel around himself.  "Well, I think I'd better get going, then."

"You don't want to hear the fifth thing?"

Dennis looked down at Mac, nostrils flaring in practiced contempt.  "I think I've heard enough."

Sheepishly, Mac stared at the floor.  "Oh, alright."

"So, get out."

Mac's eyes flickered up to his.  "Huh?"

"I need to get dressed."

"Oh."

An awkward moment of silence.

Dennis felt exasperation rising inside him, tried to corral it.   _"So,_ " he said, with only a little more hardness than he intended, "I can't get dressed with you here.  Leave."

Finally understanding, Mac got up.  "Right, right. Duh."  Like a scolded child, he walked slowly and timidly towards the threshold of the room.  The ruined door, hanging uselessly on its busted hinges, wobbled and swayed when he attempted to close it.  After a few drawn-out seconds of fiddling with it, Dennis looking on with secondhand embarrassment, he gave up and simply propped it across the entryway, then left.  Dennis listened to his friend's beat-up combat boots thumping down the hallway. Safely alone, he allowed himself a big smile.   

Deep down, of course, a part of Dennis knew that even this moment was just another means of filling the void.  The happiness that he felt now, the validation he got from Mac's obvious love for him and the sadistic gratification he got from exploiting it, that would fade.  As early as tomorrow, he would wake up and feel as empty and ravaged by dissatisfaction as ever.  He would never feel truly whole or complete.  But right now, he felt in control.  Calm.   And he decided that was good enough.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's kind of a bittersweet feeling to have this fic finished at last. If you like my stuff here, you can follow me at queen-of-filth.tumblr.com for more Sunny content!


End file.
